Where the Fowl Fans Gather

A miracle

Artemis nodded slowly. A miradle. He lifed his hand. On the palm there was a slight graze from his climb over the quayside stile. Artemis conncentrated and five blue sparks of magic leaped from his fingertips and zero in on the graze, wiping it out like a cloth wriping dirt. He had more magic left then he pretended.